


And Then There Were Two

by Persiflager



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Highlander AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5656627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Seeing as you’ve already killed me once today, I think I’ll be holding onto that piece of information for the moment,” says Philip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then There Were Two

Vera comes back to life with a gasp. Everything hurts. There’s a strong pair of arms around her waist and a rope around her neck; she scrabbles wildly at both, like a senseless, frightened animal.

“Hold _still_ ,” says Philip close to her ear, and she does. There’s the quick coolness of a blade against her neck and then the rope is gone, and she falls to the floor.

Vera lies there panting as Philip’s footsteps recede and return, by which time the burning in her throat has lessened to merely agonising.

“Drink this.” Philip has crouched down in front of her and is holding out a bottle of brandy. His shirt is wet and bloody, his chest unmarked. He is quite definitely alive.

“I killed you,” Vera says, her voice a dry, painful rasp, as she takes the bottle from him.

“I told you,” he says, standing up. “Death is for other people.”

…

Philip stands by the window and smokes as Vera chokes some of the brandy down. It stings but she feels better for it, better enough to sit up and look at him properly.

She shot him less than half an hour ago, multiple times, in the chest and stomach. She made sure of it. She left him dead or dying in the surf, and now he’s whole again, frowning at the outside world and smoking his cigarette with a fearful, nervous intensity.

“What are you?”

“Same as you, now,” says Philip.

“Can you die?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Seeing as you’ve already killed me once today, I think I’ll be holding onto that piece of information for the moment,” says Philip. 

Vera concedes that Philip has a point. She doesn’t feel particularly trustworthy. She’s fairly sure she’s either mad, or dead and in Hell, and neither type of person is particularly well-known for keeping their promises.

“Look,” says Philip, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette, “ordinarily I’d be delighted to do the whole introductory speech, gory demonstrations and all, but the fact is that we may not have much time. The short version: you’re alive, so am I, and we’re on an island full of dead people with our hands bloody. The local police may not have distinguished themselves so far, but even they’ll have to notice eventually.”

“Wargrave?”

“Dead. Shot himself, if you’d believe it.”

Vera struggles to her feet and makes her way across the room on her bare feet, trailing sand behind her. She looks in the mirror on the dresser and touches her fingers to the large, dark purple bruise running round her neck. It’s sore and hot to the touch. Her eyes look red, as if she’d been crying, but she certainly doesn’t look dead. 

“Is this Hell?”

“I never was much of a one for theology.”

“Am I mad?”

“Possibly,” says Philip. “Why did you kill that boy?”

“I-” The denial sticks to the roof of her mouth. “I let him die,” Vera finds herself saying, “because he was in the way. I was sorry. I liked him. But he had to die.”

Philip looks pleased, even impressed. It makes Vera stand up straight and arch her back. Most people look at her and see a lowly teacher, or a pretty girl, or, occasionally, a murderer. Philip sees _everything_. 

“In the way of what?” he asks.

“His uncle marrying me.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Yes. Every hour of every day.”

“Would you have regretted it if he had?”

Vera pauses to think about this. She feels oddly light, as if all her old worries were choked out of her along with her breath. Whatever or whoever she is now, she’s no longer Miss Vera Claythorne, games mistress and plucky, unlucky governess. “No,” she decides. “I don’t think I would have regretted it at all.”

“Grand,” says Philip with a slow, even smile, his teeth gleaming. “Now. We need a plan.”

…

Vera’s very good at planning. As she used to tell her pupils, it’s simply a matter of looking at the available outcomes, selecting the most acceptable one, and then taking all the necessary steps to ensure it comes to pass. Wishing, hoping and praying are of no more use in life than they are on the hockey field.

In this case the problem, as it so often is, is one of appearances. 

“There’s not really any way to make eight corpses look good,” says Philip helpfully. He’s put on a clean, non-bullet-holed shirt and dry trousers. They’ve settled in the parlour, on the grounds of it having comfortable chairs and no corpses and a view out the window for Philip to watch for approaching boats. Vera’s made coffee because it helps her think.

“Be quiet,” says Vera. “I’m thinking.” The tray of figurines is empty now. She finds herself wondering what Wargrave did with them, and if they’ll ever be found. She’s shocked to realise that she misses them – they were rather beautiful, in a cold, inhuman way, and smooth to the touch. She’d have liked to keep one if she could.

“We could wait here and tell the police everything,” Vera says. “Well, nearly everything. We could say that Wargrave knocked you out and forced me into the noose at gunpoint, and that you arrived just in time to save me. Everything else is the truth. They’d believe me - people usually do.”

“White knight to the rescue,” says Philip, running one hand up her arm until she shivers. “Everything? Including the record?”

“It would be the only way to tie it all together. They’d never believe it was him otherwise - he was old, and ill. Maybe if they had the record and the letters they could find some proof.”

“I’ve got an inkling old Wargrave might have covered his tracks pretty well,” says Philip thoughtfully. “He seemed like a thorough old bird. I fancy he’d been preparing this for a while. And if they don’t buy it, we’re not exactly going to look like a pair of innocent victims, are we? If they rake all those old stories up again - it would only take one of them to be proven true.”

“Option two,” says Vera. “Destroy the record and blame it on someone else.”

“U. N. Owen.”

“Quite. We say he’s somewhere on the island, thank goodness they got here in time-”

“And when they don’t find anyone, it’s back to the two survivors, at least one of whom has a highly disreputable past.”

“Have you?” she asks, suddenly curious. “Will you tell me about it?”

“Perhaps.” Philip regards her with that dark gaze that seems to look right through her. Hugo had looked at her like that, once, but he hadn’t liked what he saw. “Go on, then. What’s option three?”

Vera swallows and smooths down her skirt - an old habit. “They won’t be able to prove anything, but whatever story we tell people would always suspect us. As long as we’re survivors, we’re suspects. So we need to be victims. We need to be missing.” She looks out the window at the sea - it’s dark now, grey and flat, with the mainland visible in the gloom. “How strong a swimmer are you?”

Philip’s grin grows wide, wide enough to eat her. “Strong enough,” he says. “What about you?”

“I’m a very good swimmer,” says Vera with a little flush of pride. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to tell anyone that.

“Tide’s coming in now,” he says with a quick glance out the window. “Won’t be low until dawn. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?””

Vera holds Philip’s gaze with her own. It’s exhilarating, having so much attention focused on her, and terrifying; she’s not sure if she feels like a movie star, or a rabbit being hunted by a fox.

Or a tiger staring down its prey.

Heady with power, she undoes the top button of her blouse.

“Oh Vera, I’m so glad I was right about you,” says Philip, and as he takes hold of her blouse and tears it apart she laughs, delighted.

They make love there on the sofa with pearl buttons underfoot and the sound of the sea in their ears and death all around them and none of it matters, none of it touches them at all. In the morning they will swim away from Soldier Island and start a new life and everything will be perfect.

Vera’s got a plan.


End file.
